


Kent Parson's Guide to Not Letting Go

by ivoryandhorn



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, kent parson is a trash fire tbh, mention of underage drug abuse, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivoryandhorn/pseuds/ivoryandhorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t <em>fair</em>. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. </p>
<p>He wasn’t supposed to be <em>alone. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Kent Parson's Guide to Not Letting Go

**.???.**

He might’ve fallen for hockey young, but it was the dream that kept Kent Parson playing. In it, he was hoisting the Stanley Cup over his head--the first time, the third time. His teammates were just a blur around him and that was fine; he didn’t care what colors he wore as long as they would carry him all the way to that victory lap around the rink.

Juniors. The dream changes without him ever realizing, and then he can’t imagine it any other way. Still the Cup and crowd and the rink, but now Jack by his side. Their hands hoisting the Stanley Cup together; the first time, the third time. Jack’s laugh, Jack’s smile; that wide, hat-trick grin. (Jack’s mouth closing on his; the first time, the third time, forever.) It’s impossible, but it could happen. One day. If the stars align and so do the trades. Kent savors it anyway.

He hadn’t realized how alone he was until he wasn’t.

 

**.2009.**

Draft day. Kent had been surprised to be picked first, more than he’d thought possible, but Jack had disappeared somewhere and that threw his reaction off-kilter. He managed to nail it anyway, though. The _shocked but pleased young star_ , pretending that he wasn’t trying to figure out where and when Jack had gone. 

It wasn’t until the whirlwind of contracts and paperwork were done that Kent found out what had happened from Jack’s mom. _Overdose. Hospital. Stable condition._

He knew that Jack tended to drink a lot and pop pills when he got nervous, which was kind of often, but they won their games and anyway Jack always looked fine. He’d thought it was under control. But _near-fatal overdose_ didn’t fit with _under control._

Even when he had time to call the Zimmermanns, all they would tell him was that Jack was fine. Whenever he asked to talk to Jack they gave him excuses, which, fine, Jack had nearly died and was lying fucked up in a hospital bed but Kent was supposed to be Jack’s best bud. Couldn’t Jack make, like, five minutes for him? Pencil it onto a Post-It between naps or whatever. 

Calling got harder and harder. He couldn’t stomach hearing Mrs. Z scraping up a smile from somewhere and saying, again, _Just give Jack some time. How’s Las Vegas treating you?_ He couldn’t stand the hollowness in his gut when every call ended, the way he needed, so desperately, to hear Jack say, _I’m okay. We’re okay._

Jack never did return any of his calls.

 

**.2010.**

It wasn’t right, Jack not playing hockey. That wasn’t how things were supposed to be. They were supposed to join the NHL together, rise as one together. End up on the same line again (it could’ve happened, one day, maybe) or shook hands at center ice like good captains do. At the very least, he was supposed to Jack’s voice to hold onto in his new, empty room in this bright, hungry city. (And, somewhere else, Jack would be holding onto his.)

He wasn’t supposed to be _alone._

 

**.2011.**

Jack going to university hits the news and reporters hit Kent. It’s easy to bite back bitterness and give them anything other than the drama they crave; he’s had a lot of practice, knows exactly the tone to take to give them nothing or tug heartstrings, make them feel like shit for daring to bring up Jack Laurent Zimmermann.

In private, though, he hunts down every scrap of info he can find. Trying to figure out Jack’s play. Somewhere in the mix he finds shots of Jack on the campus. His hair’s grown out to the same tragic mess it’d been when they were kids and he still dressed like he was about to rob a Burger King. If it weren’t for the background he’d have thought it was a shot of Jack back in the Q.

It’s easy to figure out that Jack’s going to be playing for the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. It made Kent relieved and a little hopeful; it was just too weird to think of Jack without hockey (without Kent). he was he hoping to get into the NHL through the NCAA? Then why go to some tiny school in Massachusetts rather than Michigan or Minnesota? 

And if he was over his weird hermitage or whatever, why didn’t he call Kent? Kent was a professional and a star. He could’ve helped. Doing what, he wasn’t sure. But he could’ve done _something._

Whatever. It wasn’t any of Kent’s business anymore. Jack had made that perfectly clear. 

Still, he hunted down the Samwell Daily newspaper’s online edition. Found the hockey section. Bookmarked it. 

 

**.2012.**

So maybe Jack’s career was his business after all. First year back on the ice and already he was the starting center for the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, which was—decent, for a small school. What had been been doing during those three years? Restless Google searches turned up nothing, or at least nothing he could understand. Kent watched all of Jack’s games, squeezed them in between prepping for his own. Wondered if Jack watched his, if Jack watched the NHL.com highlights between classes or whatever and saw Kent. If Jack wanted to be on his line again.

He could make it happen, Kent thought. He was the star of the Aces now, no point pretending otherwise. Getting an old buddy on the farm team—where Jack could with real players, not rich kids having some fun before their real lives began—where Jack could be promoted to the Aces, where they can be Zimmermann and Parson (Zimms and Kenny) again—

He could make it happen. 

But then playoffs happened and he put those thoughts away, until he was flushed with his first Stanley Cup and realized, if he was ever going to get Jack on board, this was it.

So he rented a car and drove down to Samwell, Massachusetts. It wasn’t hard to find the house that belonged to the hockey team. Kent parked a couple blocks away and walked in, young enough to blend in. Though it wasn’t long before one player or another recognized him. Good. Kent turned on the charm. Let Jack see what he was missing; the high life, the glitter and the gloss.

Somewhere in the crowd of excited, drunk kids he spotted Jack skulking along one wall and fucked up his umpteenth signature of the night.

Jack at eighteen had still been growing, the promise and potential of Bad Bob’s genes only just making themselves known. Gangly and awkward off the ice, with a growth spurt he couldn’t get used to and cheekbones he didn’t know how to flatter. (Kent had kind of liked that, though; the mighty Zimmermann, a complete dweeb.) At twenty-three, Jack was that promise fulfilled and more: broad shoulders, squared jaw, hair clipped short like the week before the draft. He’d been a good-looking kid back then but now, now he was something else entirely and Kent felt himself going a little slack-jawed at the realization. It had been years since he’d last seen Jack. He himself was 5’10” now. He hadn’t been when they were in the Q.

Jack loved hockey, though. He’d want to play for a real team again (with Kent again). All he had to do was get Jack on board.

He did not get Jack on board.

 

**.2013.**

Maybe it was creepy to follow Eric Bittle’s Twitter, but if the guy didn’t want people seeing his tweets, he shouldn’t’ve made it public. It wasn’t as if Kent _followed_ followed him. (That would’ve been too obvious.) He just checked in on it every couple of days. Hoping for news about Jack. Trying to piece together the Jack in Eric Bittle’s tweets with the Jack he remembered. He tried to imagine Jack going to classes, sitting by ponds, reading books and typing up papers. All those normal , non-NHL things that must take up the hours between Jack’s practices, workouts, games. He tried to imagine Jack willingly hanging out with a mouthy naked stoner (Kent had been best friend first and Kent was none of those things, Kent was driven and ambitious and, oh yeah, _a professional hockey player like Jack_ —) and failed utterly.

He saved every photo of Jack in the Samwell Daily for nights when he was feeling particularly pathetic. Tried to pry secrets out of his perfect cheekbones and perfect jawline and frost-colored eyes. Read what? He didn’t know. But Jack always had his media face on, imposing, impenetrable, and even though he was Jack’s best friend, Kent couldn’t read anything in those eyes at all.

It wasn’t _fair_. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. 

 

**.2014.**

Last try. Kent walked into the house pretending he knew what he was doing. All he had to do was get Jack on board. Jack was fielding NHL offers left and right; scuttlebutt said he’d been meeting with a Falconers’ AM on the regular. But the Aces had nothing to prove and that was where Jack belonged, with the champions (with Kent). He could feel his heart racing and palms beading with sweat when he saw Jack with some blonde kid, smiling and at ease, casual. He couldn’t remember having ever seen Jack so relaxed at a party.

All he had to do was get Jack on board.

He did not get Jack on board. 

 

**.2015.**

Kent Parson is a fucking adult and he can move on. He can.

 

**.???.**

Last practice before finals. The Aces do well and Kent is proud of his team. They have a good shot at winning the Cup again this year. (So do the Falcs.) (So does Jack.)

“Hey, Parse,” Foxy calls to him, on the way to the locker room. He’s one of the rookies, one inch on Jack and maybe a comparable skater but hands not nearly as soft. “You used to play with Zimmermann, right?”

“In the Q,” Kent said automatically. 

“What’s he like?”

A few guys had gathered, curious. The young ones. The vets either never cared or had satisfied their curiosity years ago. 

“I don’t know,” Kent said. “That was a long time ago.”


End file.
